


Foolish Girl

by shadow_lover



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Brief Fantasizing About Hypothetical Gang Bang, Corporal Punishment, Dirty Talk, F/F, Lust Potion/Spell, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Canon, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 09:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15992192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: Morrigan fails to kill the Templars she was running from. Flemeth punishes her for her carelessness.





	Foolish Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> Happy Relationshipping, heeroluva! Hope you enjoy :D

Shaken, dizzy, Morrigan stumbles back to her mother’s hut. Her hands burn, chafed with splinters where they clench her staff. Her whole body stings like she is a river scorched dry. When she blinks, she still sees the blinding blue glow of the Templar’s ability.

It is her own fault, she knows, but that does not lessen the pain. The handsome ones are always more fun to toy with; their false confidence is sweet to shatter. This Templar was very handsome, and Morrigan lingered too long to tease him.

The door is shut. She lacks the strength to open it. “Mother,” she calls. She lacks the strength to keep the pleading from her voice.

The door creaks open, and in the thin light of evening Flemeth looks carved more from oak than flesh, weather-worn, hard. Her voice whips out: “Did you kill them?”

“They won’t find us.” Morrigan leans on her staff. “I lost them around the winding—”

“Did you kill them?” Flemeth clicks her tongue. “Foolish girl, slinking back a failure with your tail between your legs. Get in.” 

The door creaks open wider, and Morrigan staggers across the threshold. Her skin prickles with more than pain: it is the sense she has fled from one predator into another’s claws. She jolts when Flemeth seizes her arm, old bony fingers digging into her muscle. Her skin crawls with the touch.

Flemeth has never asked before touching Morrigan. She holds and inspects Morrigan like she is a torn dress and not her daughter.

“Take a lyrium potion from the cupboard, and then sit on my bed.” Flemeth says at last, releasing her. “I’ll punish you when I return, and it will be a better lesson if you’re fit for it.”

****

Still sick and shaking, Morrigan pulls a bottle from the cupboard. The effort of getting the stopper out is enough she has to lean against the wall after to catch her breath. _Foolish girl_ , she hears, and in her heart she has to agree.

She sniffs the potion to confirm what it is—she is not _that_ foolish—and knocks it back. The relief is immediate: mana flows through her veins, a soothing balm, cool, brisk, like splashing water on her face. She shivers in delight as the mana fills her.

Shivers again in shock with the second wave of sensation. An entirely different energy washes through her, warmer, headier—

Morrigan sways. The glass slips from her grasp, and she barely hears it shattering against the floorboards. Blood pounds in her ears. She has never been so aroused in her life; she has never been so ashamed of her own body. So frightened of it. She wants to run, flee, cower—to fling herself to her knees and bury her fingers in her cunt.

But she has her orders. Flushed and trembling, she sits on her mother's bed to wait.

****

By the time Flemeth returns, the sun has well and truly set, and Morrigan is fit to explode. Her hands fist in the blankets and her breath comes in shallow pants. Every time she moves—and Maker, she can't stop squirming—her loose clothing brushes tantalizingly over her too-sensitive skin.

She bows her head, struggling for composure, as Flemeth stands over her.

“You were so eager to flirt with the Templar,” Flemeth says, amusement rich in her voice. “So eager and so ineffectual. Coldhearted Morrigan—you cannot properly seduce if you have never felt true fire inside you.”

“Coldhearted,” Morrigan repeats, at last glaring up. Anger slices through her arousal. “You speak of yourself, surely.”

Flemeth only laughs, sits on the bed beside her, and says, “Bend over, girl.”

As powerful as she is, a wild living myth, she is at the heart of things Morrigan’s mother, and needs only her hand to make her disappointment known.

Morrigan stands, too dizzy with need to protest as usual, and lays herself down over Flemeth’s lap. Her knees and chest against the straw mattress, her flushed face buried in her arms. This close, the scent of Flemeth is overwhelming: elfroot, deathroot, smoke, and blood. She slew the Templars with the hands now flipping Morrigan’s skirt above her ass, leaving her pale flesh and tingling cunt bare and vulnerable.

The first blow lands, and Morrigan yelps before the pain even registers. The second, in the same spot, and the third—Morrigan stifles her next cry, and screws her eyes shut as Flemeth’s hand falls again and again and again.

Again. The humiliation Morrigan has felt so many times before stings all the worse, mingled with her overwhelming need. Again. Flemeth’s arm is stronger than it looks, and she takes no mercy on her quivering daughter. Morrigan’s nerves are so frayed and confused, each slap is a jolt of pleasure to her core. Again. Again.

The next sound that escapes her lips is a moan.

“Are you enjoying this?” Flemeth’s hand falls gently next. Her gnarled fingers brush over Morrigan’s aching, tender cheeks. “I know I am. You’re taking your punishment so much more meekly than usual. If I knew a little lust spell was all it took to curb your bratty tongue, I would have done this years ago.”

Morrigan can say nothing in response; all she can do is gasp and squirm as Flemeth squeezes her ass, digging into the flesh like she’s kneading bread.

“Perhaps next time I won’t wait until you’re home,” Flemeth muses. Her hand slides down. Her nails dig into the tops of Morrigan’s thighs, teasing pinpricks of pain. “I’ll cast it while you’re running, and let the Templars take you. A pretty girl, ripe and begging for their cocks—I assure you, they won’t be quick to turn you in to their superiors.”

“You wouldn’t,” Morrigan breathes shakily.

“Never assume what I would or would not do. That will get you killed one day.”

She plunges her fingers into Morrigan’s cunt.

Morrigan jerks away on reflex, but Flemeth’s other hand lands firm between her shoulder blades to hold her in place. There is no running from this, and as Flemeth’s fingers pump into her, stretching and shoving into her flesh, she no longer wants to escape.

Flemeth laughs. “Or I could cast the spell on them instead. They could use you for hours, never tiring. Surely that would teach you never to leave your enemy alive.”

Morrigan moans again, toes curling. Her hips ride up into her mother’s hand.

“How many Templars could you take before you start to cry? How many hours?”

Flemeth’s fingers are so bad—so sweet—already. Morrigan struggles to imagine how a Templar’s cock, and another, and another, would feel, plunging into her helpless body. She struggles to breath, mouth slack and useless against the bedding. She struggles to think.

Then Flemeth speaks a word, and Morrigan’s orgasm rips through her like a fireball. Her whole body and spirit are aflame with something far headier than magic. Like she is adrift in the Fade, the chaos of dreams, and all that’s real is the rough heat driving into her.

With her orgasm, the spell is gone. The intoxicating arousal ebbs, leaving Morrigan feeling empty and cold. Her ass hurts more and more as the pleasure fades.

Flemeth’s hand slips from Morrigan’s cunt, and she pats Morrigan’s stinging ass. “What do you say?” she asks sweetly.

The emptiness aches. Eyes wet and stinging, still shuddering with sweet humiliation, Morrigan pants the expected response: “Thank you for the lesson, mother.”


End file.
